Freedom Breathes
by LaughableBlackStorm
Summary: Topher has doubts in himself and the Dollhouse, Paul has a plan, and Echo is oblivious to it all.


_Author's Notes_: Well, here is my first crack at Dollhouse fanfiction. I haven't written anything in while, so I'm slightly out of practice, but I'm still pleased with the way this turned out. When I started writing it I had absolutely no storyline in mind; it all just flowed through as I typed. In this one we've got Topher and Echo, along with a colourful splash of Paul :)

Constructive criticism is very welcome and appreciated! Happy reading!

(Note: Story takes place a couple of weeks post-Omega. Rated for swearing.)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Dollhouse. I am nowhere near creative enough to ever think of something this magnificent and complex.

* * *

**FREEDOM BREATHES**

He heard the second-hand on his watch tick several times after the chair rose again, and the fluorescent blue lights faded out. Blinking once, he held the customary welcoming smile on his face, clasped his hands behind his back. The pad of his thumb on his right hand rested on top of the glass protecting the face of his watch; the vibration of every second resonated through his finger. Blinking again, he realized that seven seconds had ticked by since the wipe — much longer than the average two to four seconds it took each doll to gather their bearings and ask him the question he had programmed into each of their blissfully unaware, dependent brains.

And for some reason, Echo was merely staring at him, eyes wide and innocent, her lips slightly parted in a crooked _o_. Topher nervously shifted, tilting his head. What in the hell was happening?

"Hello, Echo," he tried. The blank expression finally left her face, to be replaced by a pretty smile. Still, she remained silent.

Dear Christ, he had somehow made her mute. He shut his eyes for a moment, scanning through his memory of the wipe, found nothing amiss, pried open his eyelids, and wondered why she was analyzing him so thoroughly with that innocent _grin _on her face.

"How are you?" he tried again, his voice less steady. By now his hands had slid back to his sides, and his right fingers were playing with his pants pocket. Adele would have his ass if something happened to her number one Active; perhaps she would fire him, or deduct from his paycheque. Not that he desperately needed the money — being a genius working for an underground, secretive organization that attended to the wealthy most definitely had its advantages — it merely helped him stay above all the others. He knew for a fact that the Handlers and all had paycheques with at least one less zero than his. Or maybe she would reduce his snack budget instead.

But that would cease to be the case, if Echo started reciting her lines at this instant.

The butterflies settling into his stomach, Topher swallowed thickly and laughed anxiously. Muttered to himself, "I haven't made you brain dead, have I?" A ridiculous question in and of itself, he realized before it was halfway through his mouth. _Obviously_ Echo wasn't brain dead, or at least no more so than she had been during the rest of her stay at the Dollhouse.

She cocked her head to the side, and mimicked his nervous chuckle. Beautiful. Not only was she a Doll, she was now a parrot.

"Echo," he repeated firmly, abandoning the soft voice he always used for the newly wiped Dolls.

Echo blinked once, twice, and then murmured, "Did I fall asleep?" and Topher closed his eyes and made a sound of victory, bouncing on the spot. Clearing his throat, he nodded at her and his hands returned to behind his back.

"For a little while."

The woman glanced around, taking in the odd and advanced mechanisms in the room, before meeting Topher's gaze once again. "Shall I go now?"

"If you'd like." He could not _wait_ for her to leave his room and go do whatever it was she wanted – yoga, perhaps, or thirty more laps in the pool, or trimming one of those tiny trees. Anything to allow him to return to normalcy once more.

A beat passed, and he said slowly, his head tilted downward and his eyes boring into hers, "Echo, why haven't you left yet?"

"Oh," she uttered quietly, barely audible. He lifted his head and watched her as she gingerly got to her feet. She took a step away from the chair, appeared to think of something, and then turned back around. For a second her eyes locked with his and the will to glance away abandoned him. Instead he silently stared as she diverted her gaze to the chair, and reached out with a hand, caressing an armrest. She walked around it, her hand trailing a path along the hard plastic. Her fingers touched the unlit lights softly, as though expecting them to react to her skin; when the chair remained motionless and unchanged she pressed against it harder, as though willing it to mould beneath her fingertips.

"Echo," he nearly shouted. She turned her head to peer at him, unbothered by his sharp tone. "What are you doing?"

"I—"

"Get out. You need to leave, remember?" He gestured at the doorway with his hand. Uncontrolled heartbeats reverberated inside his chest, as tendrils of uncertainty wormed into his mind. "You have to— I don't know what you're doing— What _are_ you doing, Echo? You have to go shower."

She stared at him in confusion. "Did I just wake up?"

"Yes. You fell asleep, remember?"

"Oh. I need to go shower."

"You bet you do. Make it a long one."

On her way out the door, she glanced back at him, her hand resting on the doorway. "Goodbye." And finally, she was out of sight. He hesitantly followed her out of the room from a distance, and his eyes trailed after her as she descended the staircase and instead of heading to the empty showers, joined Sierra in art class. They were painting today.

Topher backed up into his lair again, unsure of what to think. He sank onto his sofa and rested his elbows on his knees. Stared at his shoes, frowning. The floor had quite the fascinating lack of pattern.

* * *

"Hey, Ivy, mind grabbing a guy a juice box?"

In the corner of his eye, Ivy glanced up from her inspection of Topher's latest developed personality. His focus remained glued to the computer in front of him while she replied, "Of course, sir. I am trained to do nothing more than quench your thirst, sir."

"Aw, don't be like that," he called to her, absently. No, these connection were wrong, they weren't generating the right reflexes. He clicked at the keyboard incessantly, determined to get this one right on the ball. "You wouldn't want any of the upper folks hearing you say that, they may take it the wrong way, their minds being dried up as they are."

A tiny, delicate hand moved into his line of vision, and a fruit punch landed beside his wrist. "I'm sure your mind is so much more stimulated, Topher."

He cast her a quick smirk. "I know you're begging to find out."

Without even looking at her, he knew she was rolling her eyes.

"So who is this imprint for?" she asked a moment later, leaning over his shoulder.

Moving slightly to the side, he grinned proudly and gestured at the rotating circular image of the neurons in a brain. "This here is a sultry seductress named Andrea Flynn, nickname Sugarcane. She likes the feel of being in control — gentle control, specifically — and enjoys spending evenings dancing in men's bedrooms sans clothing." He closed his eyes, imagined it, and sighed blissfully. "What a woman."

"Sugarcane?" Ivy asked.

Topher shrugged, holding his palms up. "Hey, I don't think up the specifics. The clients receive what they ask for."

"Uh huh," Ivy muttered, staring at him with an eyebrow raises. Her eyes flickered toward the screen for a moment. "You sure you weren't thinking up some of your own fantasies while making this baby?"

"What would I need to fantasize about, my dear assistant?" He turned his attention back to the keyboard and changed the angle of the image. Pointing to a pink highlighted area, he said, "See this here? It makes her spunky and imaginative, though this here—" His finger touched a different spot on the screen, "—keeps her from getting too crazy. I believe the man who contacted Ms. Dewitt wants a woman who keeps him in his 'place, but doesn't set fire to the sheets.' "

Topher was snickering, while Ivy scrunched her nose. "He sounds wonderful. Who's the Active? Echo?"

Humming in response, Topher stood up and grabbed an empty wedge.

"Can I do it?" Ivy asked suddenly, eyeing the wedge.

Topher blinked and stared at her in confusion. "Do what? Dance around naked?"

"No, idiot. Never mind."

A minute later, Topher held the now filled wedge in his hand as he pushed away at buttons with the other. The door opened and he looked up to see Echo being led in by her new handler. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he missed the playful banter between him and Langton. This new handler was dry and dull, and it brought the level of awesome in his sanctuary down a few notches.

"Hello, Echo," he greeted the Doll.

She smiled at him. "Hello."

Within seconds it was over with, and the last of her body spasms faded along with the blank mind she possessed as a Doll. The innocent glint in her eyes became sharper, her dark brown irises turned a shade darker. She stood up and glanced at her handler with a small, mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "We ready to go?" she asked. Topher's eyes were glued to her. She radiated sensual confidence; she was undoubtedly very comfortable in her own skin, and was not afraid to display it. Her confidence or her skin, he thought.

"Come this way, Ms. Flynn," said her Handler, who turned to leave the room.

On her way out the door, Echo — Andrea Flynn — hesitated with her hand on the doorway and glanced back at Topher, who was watching her intently. She winked at him, murmured, "Bye, sugar," and then disappeared. Shakily, Topher released the breath he hadn't been aware was trapped in his lungs.

* * *

She came back approximately five hours later, with a smug glow and a long, leisurely stride. Her dark plaid skirt left little to the imagination; in the back of his mind, Topher found himself wondering what those legs had been doing during the evening. He nodded to her Handler, who stepped outside, leaving the two of them alone.

"Hello again," she greeted cheerfully, as she eased herself into the reclining chair. Her polished fingernails tapped on the armrest, though she seemed unaware of the habit. He stared at her fingers for a moment, the rhythm they made pounding in his head, before he met her eyes and licked his lips.

"Hey." He stepped to the side, his finger hovering over the button that would wipe Sugarcane from the woman's mind. Just as he was about to press down, he turned back to her and strayed off course. "Did you have fun?"

She closed her eyes in evident pleasure and hummed. "Very much so." She opened her eyes and met his gaze, not taking in his oddly tense muscles. "Gary is a fantastic lover."

He stared at her hair instead of her intense eyes. "Sounds like it." Once again, his finger touched the button.

"And what you're name, honey?"

Her voice made his stomach twist. He closed his eyes. "Please lay your head down, Ms. Flynn. For your treatment."

She was smirking again as she complied, he could _hear_ it. "Everyone calls me Andrea, you know."

"Yeah, or Sugarcane," he said. His gaze remained firmly planted on his finger, ever ready to wipe the slate that resembled her mind.

"Mhm, but you can call me Andrea."

He jabbed at the button and behind him he could hear the woman's body jerk, heard her gasp. His stomach was still twisting, although with a different sensation now. So what if the sexy woman behind him wasn't interested in him. She wasn't a real person.

When he turned back around and stared at Echo's familiar, peaceful face, he had to remind himself that neither was she.

* * *

Echo acted perfectly normal for seven more imprints and wipes. No spaced out staring, no delayed responses. Straight up script reciting, like he had programmed her to do, and he cherished every second of it. Doubt crept into his mind when he thought of her odd behaviour the few weeks earlier.

He was currently leaning against the railing munching on a granola bar. Below him the Dolls went about their daily activities, thinking and feeling nothing. Chewing slowly and savouring the strawberry flavour of the bar, Topher wondered how it felt to be wiped. Not pleasant, that was certain; simply watching them 'be their best' gave him a headache. To go for five years without a memory, a thought of his own… It would be impossible. He was already reluctant to fall asleep at night, knowing that if he could somehow master the power to forever feel sharp and attentive – if he could somehow defeat sleepiness – who knew what his mind could come up with? His brain never stopped ticking, it was a machine, and he hated to waste so much time putting it to rest.

These people below, hardly definable as 'people' at the moment, were boring yet fascinating, useless yet incredibly valuable. And he had created them all. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The last of his snack found its way to his stomach and his gaze landed on the famous trio – Victor, Echo and Sierra. Victor, although no longer showing signs that he was attracted to Sierra (Dr. Saunders — _Whisky_, he thought with a choke — had him check every couple of days, even though he argued it wasn't his job to review security tapes), was still closer to her than Echo. Indeed, without November around, the brunette woman was quite the third wheel in the group. Of course Topher was the only one aware of this development, as Echo's mains concerns were to be the best Doll possible. Langton may have noticed, Topher mused, and although the man's hands _should_ have been full with his recently acquired promotion to head of security, he somehow always found the time to follow his old Active's movements. Topher wondered why the man did that; it was strange for a Handler to become so attached to his Doll. Unless the man had a thing for Echo, be it brotherly, fatherly, or something more… Topher weighed the possibilities as he stood on the balcony, but reached the conclusion that the ex-police officer didn't show any signs of attraction. He simply felt protective of her.

Still, Topher could not understand why. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the golden steel railing, unconsciously the same one Andrea Flynn had tapped on the chair weeks ago.

Echo, somehow perceptive of Topher's eyes on the back of her head, looked up at him from the table she and her two friends (but they weren't _friends_, not really, they didn't know how to feel friendly, it was simply instinctive patterns) were eating at. His face remained blank as she smiled at him and even waved with her hand that wasn't holding a fork. His lips parted and he took a deep breath, then pushed himself away from the railing and retreated back into his sanctuary.

* * *

The next time Topher had to wipe her, Agent Paul Ballard stood in the doorway watching.

"Come to see the show?" Topher asked him, his voice slightly tense, still harbouring bitterness towards their first encounter.

"I was with her this time," the man said tonelessly. As always, Topher had no idea what emotions were swirling behind the agent's stone façade. "I accompanied her throughout the mission. We were partners."

Mission. Topher inwardly laughed. "And during your lovely time together," he said, lining himself up with the translucent board in front of him that showed the Active's brain activity. "Did you discover anything interesting about each other? Like maybe the fact that her name isn't Caroline, at least not right now?"

"I had no idea."

"Mhm." He touched the screen and a separate image slid into view, replacing the old one. Damn he loved his technology. "Just so you know," he glanced at Ballard, feeling something besides his contempt for the brawny man, "it won't matter how much time you spend with her. She still won't know who you really are when you see each other again."

Ballard's eyes were fixed on Echo's face. He was silent for a long moment, where Topher paused in his work to watch the man. "She knows who I am," he said finally.

"No," Topher said slowly, as though he were speaking to a three-year-old. Perhaps he was. "_Caroline_ knows who you are. _This_ here—" he nodded toward the woman who lay in the reclined chair, her eyes closed and a ghost of a smile on her lips, "—is Analise Pedersen, whose grandparents were systematically executed in World War Two, who you went undercover with to undercover a buried secret some weasel's been keeping for the Nazis for the past seventy years, all so some guy could reclaim his family fortune and move to his dream home in Winnipeg, Canada."

Ballard shook his head, though Topher knew the facts were digging muddy trenches in his heavy thoughts. "She recognized me, for a second." He glanced up at Topher and smirked at him triumphantly. The resignation that had been slowly creeping into his eyes throughout his stay lessened the effect. "She recognized _herself_."

"I should hope so. I don't program them to have short term memory."

Shaking his head fervently, Ballard stepped into the room and made his way around the chair, so that he was merely inches away from Topher. Swallowing, Topher involuntarily backed up a step, intimidated by the taller, much stronger man, who just so happened to always be carrying a tazer.

"She looked at me," Ballard continued softly, firmly. "And she said, 'Don't I know you from somewhere?' "

Topher closed his eyes for a moment and glanced away, staring resolutely at a wire stashed against the opposite wall. Echo's — Caroline's — voice filled his ears, speaking the words Paul Ballard spoke. Her gentle, soft words, filled with curiosity and uncertainty, looking for the approval that she _wasn't_ crazy, she _wasn't_ jaded and lacking the valuable pieces the rest of them lacked, the pieces he suddenly realized he himself had lost so long ago. God, he loved her voice. His eyes misted over at the revelation. _What was wrong with him?_

"And then she pointed to herself…" Ballard's voice drifted back into Topher's mind, churning the turmoil that had manifested itself inside of his head. "And she asked, 'Why did you just call me Ana? My name's not Ana,' and I, being so shocked, answered, 'You're right, your name isn't Ana, it's Analise.'

"Do you know what she said next, Topher? _Do you?_" Ballard's hands grabbed onto Topher's forearms and squeezed hard, hard enough to leave bruises in the morning and hard enough to make him bite his tongue. He found himself unable to say a word. "No. She said: 'No, it isn't. _My name is Caroline_.' "

The arms holding him still shook him once, twice, and his vision blurred even further. He felt Ballard lean in close to his ear. "She knows who she is," he hissed harshly, sounding about as close to the end of the rope as Topher was. "And she knows what you are doing to her, and she is going to snap out of it one day — maybe today, you never know — and she is going to get her revenge. Because you can't _fuck_ with people like this, Topher, do you understand me? No matter what you do, no matter how many machines you design, how many wires you attach to a body, a person is never a blank slate."

"You ever actually see a blank slate?" Topher said, speaking without realizing it. What he was saying didn't even register in his mind; he had no idea what he was trying to convey. Most of all he despised how weak and shaky he sounded. He wished he knew what part of himself he was lacking so he could fix it.

Ballard didn't respond. Instead he released his intense grip on Topher's arms and backed up several paces, until he was standing at Echo's feet. Topher, crossing his arms over his chest and covering the aching red marks with his hands, glanced sideways at Echo. His throat ached at the peaceful expression on her face. She was completely unaware of the storm brewing around them, inside the Dollhouse, inside of him.

"Do it," Ballard said nonchalantly, with a hint of a man who couldn't decide whether he'd lost it all or not. "Wipe her clean, kid."

Topher nodded once, jerkily, and pried his left hand off his right arm long enough to press the button that made Caroline squirm and try to catch her breath. Immediately he closed his eyes. He was thinking of her as Caroline now. Hopefully he wouldn't turn into the sorry bastard Paul Ballard was.

Turning his head slightly to see Ballard leave the room and Echo sitting up in the chair, staring at him with a small smile that rendered him unable to mutter the words he'd said hundreds of times, he realized that would not be a problem. He was already his own brand of sorry bastard.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked softly. The sound of her voice made his finger clench around his already forming bruises.

He could do nothing but nod.

"Shall I go now?"

Inhaling deeply, trembling, he whispered, "Yeah. You should… You should go, Echo."

She smiled and stood up. "Okay."

He should have expected it. On her way out the door, she hesitated and turned back, her hand resting on the doorway. He watched her through still-blurry eyes.

"I try to be my best."

He turned away so she was facing his shoulder. "You are your best, Echo."

She nodded, he could see it in the corner of his eye. He wished she would get to the point and leave. "Are you your best?"

"Yes. I don't know. Probably not. Why?" He glanced at her. "No. I'm not at my best. But you are. You're…at your best."

"You should try to be your best. I'm always happy when I'm at my best."

"Yeah?" he breathed, turning away again. "That's good. I'm thrilled for you. Could you— Get out. Please. Echo."

He watched, transfixed, as she tilted her head to the side, caught sight of something interesting down the hallway, and disappeared, her hand slipping out of view behind her.

* * *

The door opened several hours later. He looked up and scowled nastily, and for the first time in many, many years felt pure, unfiltered fury.

"Ballard. Get the _fuck out_."

The agent stopped once he was only a few feet inside the room. "What's got you all in a twist?"

"I said get out, Ballard." His voice was getting shaky. The man needed to leave, _now_.

"No."

Topher stood up in a rush, not caring that in the process of pushing himself to his feet his hand pressed the wrong keys on the keyboard. He strode up to Ballard, not caring about the size difference between the two of them, grabbed the older man by the shirt collar, and shoved him back. Taken by surprise, Ballard stumbled back a step or two.

"I said, get out," Topher said in a low hiss. He couldn't breathe properly. Oceans roared inside of his ears.

Ballard held his hands up in a truce. "Look, I just came here to talk to you."

"Yeah? About what. _Caroline?_" Another push, although this time the effect was much more disappointing. Ballard effortlessly grabbed hold of his wrists and whirled him around so Topher was slammed against he wall. Letting go, Ballard backed up a step.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" he asked quietly, frowning.

"I asked you to get out. The polite thing to— You should— You need to get out. Please."

Watching him silently for a moment, Ballard nodded slowly before backing up another step.

"No," Topher said with a violent shake of his head. He threw his hand to the side. "The door is _that_ way!"

"I know. Topher, calm down, I really just want to talk to you." His voice was calm, and against Topher's will he found himself taking deeper breaths, allowing more oxygen to make its much need way to his short circuiting brain.

"Okay, all right. So talk."

Ballard seemed to take a moment to think about his words, before, "I want to say that I'm sorry, for hurting you earlier. It wasn't necessary. I was… I was stressed, about…"

"Echo?" Topher supplied quietly, bitterly.

The agent nodded slowly. "Yes, Caroline…Echo. Along with…everything else."

"Yeah, with you there," Topher said in a raspy voice.

"Caroline's remembrance, this morning, about who she was…it only lasted a moment. No longer than thirty seconds, to be honest. After she told me her name, the man we were going after walked through the door and it was like she just…snapped back into character. Like some great actor. It was as though we were stuck in this morbid movie, and I had no idea what character I was playing." Ballard swallowed thickly, refusing to break eye contact. "But I realize, now, that even if she is stuck in character for a few more years — if she isn't allowed to be her real self, if she has to constantly be playing the main characters in all these films, it won't matter. Because she'll still be herself. She'll still be _Caroline_, Topher. You know that, I know you do. You've witnessed her moments, where she doesn't act like the other Dolls. She isn't as stable an actor as you need her to be, and there is nothing you can do about it, is there."

"No," Topher whispered. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing hard. "No, you're right. She isn't stable. Nothing is stable. Sometimes it feels like this whole building is going to collapse any minute." His arms fell back down to his sides. "I can't stop that feeling, Ballard. And I definitely cannot stop Caroline from coming back during those moments. I can't stop the Dollhouse from burning to the ground."

Ballard nodded in encouragement. "So help me stop it," he said, lowly. "Topher, help me help Caroline. I know you want to, I can see it, you care about her. You want to help her just as much as I do… Maybe more."

_Oh_. So this is what Ballard wanted to talk about. Yes, Topher understood it now.

"I can't just switch sides," he said with a humourless chuckle. "I work for these people. In a way, they all work for me. Without me, Adele's idea would be nothing more than a dream that could never come true."

"Exactly, Topher. You created this place. These people, these Dolls. You created Echo. Sierra. Victor. You're starting to see it, aren't you. That it's wrong. What you are doing isn't right, Topher, and you have the power to help them; you have the power to let Caroline come back."

"She volunteered," he tried weakly.

"How much of it was really her choice?" Ballard reasoned quietly.

Topher sank to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. Ballard was right, of course. The man knelt down in front of him and rested a hand on Topher's knee. He inwardly sneered at himself, as the simple gesture broke him down even further. He couldn't remember the last time a person had touched him.

"Topher," Ballard whispered, pleadingly. Topher watched him silently. The man sounded desperate, but inwardly he must have known that he had Topher under his thumb now. "Help Caroline. Help Echo."

* * *

Lying in bed that night, Topher wondered just how he would help Caroline. There were several options, of course. There always were. He could secretly imprint her with her original, real personality, and effectively erase Echo from the Dollhouse. That would ensure Caroline gained her life back, and it would sure as hell please Ballard, who would most likely then sweep Caroline off her feet and drive her away from this wretched city, leaving Topher behind in the dust. He would most likely be sent to the attic after that, having personally gained little to nothing, while the two other key players in this growing operation would live beautiful, fulfilling lives. They would forget about him and his genius, his old belief that the Dollhouse was the new way of the world, his changed mind, his selflessness in freeing Caroline and thereby imprisoning himself.

Option two was slightly better, but only when he looked at it through tainted glass. He could somehow get rid of fucking Ballard. Caroline wouldn't get freed any earlier, or maybe she would… With Paul Ballard out of the picture he could reunite Caroline's body and mind and they could leave together. No attic for him, no zombie-like state for her, and no irritating, obsessed agent who was far better than Topher could ever be, making him Caroline's number one choice.

Option three, which had been the first one he'd considered after Ballard had left his office, was much more direct, quicker, and would leave Ballard fucked and forced to leave Echo be for the remaining years of her contract. If Topher simply, oh, say, attached himself to his chair and imploded his brain, the cold, constricting hand squeezing his chest would most definitely disappear, as would the worries about Ballard and Caroline. However, now that his mind had delved deeper into option two, he decided option three would be his second choice in action, if his first went to hell.

Question was now, how was he going to get rid of Ballard?

The obvious answer was to kill him, but Topher couldn't do it. As much as the older man made Topher's skin crawl with contempt, he wasn't a killer, never could be, and so that left limited choices. Perhaps he could knock the man out for a while, free Caroline, and the two of them could leave. Yes, that sounded perfect. They wouldn't use credit cards — he had plenty of money to support the two of them with cash — and would stay under the radar, so that Ballard couldn't track them down.

New problem. Caroline might not want to leave with him. Actually, she most definitely would refuse to go anywhere with Topher Brink, the man who had repeatedly over the years wiped her mind clean, stored her away on a shelf, and imprinted her with other personalities. His newfound hope diminished as quickly as it came. Obviously she would run away with Ballard, the man who had been trying to free her for months.

In no situation could Topher gain anything. No matter what he did to free Echo, he would lose it all. He would without a doubt lose his life.

That should have been enough to stop him from acting. For a split second, it was, until he realized something greater.

All that he _really_ wanted was for Caroline to be free.

* * *

Ballard stepped into Topher's office — he hadn't thought of it as his sanctuary in days — and locked the door behind him.

"Is anyone else in here?"

"Yeah, I invited Adele and all of security to let them in on our little plans."

"You're a riot."

"I like to think so."

Topher felt Ballard's eyes on his slumped form in the chair in front of the computer, his fingers tapping at the keys with none of his usual gusto. The silence stretched on for several minutes.

"We need to think of a plan."

"Why don't we free all of them, instead of just Caroline?" Topher said, staring resolutely at the flickering screen in front of him. He hadn't encountered a personality this frustrating to manufacture in a long time, or perhaps he simply wasn't at the top of his game.

"We are. After Caroline's out of here."

Topher nodded slowly, his thoughts confirmed. "With you, you mean. You plan on leaving me back here to somehow imprint dozens of other Dolls with their original selves."

"No. I'll get outside help—"

"You mean from your FBI friends that already have so much confidence in you?" He glanced at Ballard, who as usual wore no discernible expression. "Besides, by the time you get help it'll be too late."

"Too late?" Ballard asked, a frown evident in his voice.

"You think a missing Active won't be noticed? I'll be one of the first people they come to. It'll only take them a moment to realize what's going on."

"I'm disappearing with her; we'll make it look like I took her away."

Topher smiled at him sadly. "With Caroline's personality back in her? No. You two need to get out of here, and I'll deal with the Dollhouse."

"Goddamn it, Topher, now is not the time to act stupidly heroic."

"Look who's talking, Mr. I-Want-To-Sneak-A-Doll-Out-Of-A-Building-With-Limitless-Security-Features."

Ballard was silent for a moment. "We'll make it work. The two of us can make this work."

"Why can't you just wait, Ballard?" Topher said desperately, showing just how ready to collapse he was. Ballard stared at him intently as they locked eyes. "She'll be out in two years and some months. She'll be free _then_."

"And do you think Caroline deserves to wait that long for her life back?"

Topher shook his head and snorted, choking slightly on his words. "I just want her to be happy."

"Okay," Ballard said, excitement seeping back into his tone. It made Topher feel sick to his stomach. Sick in his head. "So we're both on the right track here. Let's form a plan."

"Here's one. Shoot your way out." That way I'll be left alive, he thought.

"We need to slip out, Topher. Unnoticed. Now, when I broke into here with…with Alpha—" Topher scowled at the dreaded memory, "—he hacked the entire security system. Couldn't you do that?"

Topher sighed. He hadn't thought of this, which showed just how hopeful he felt of his future. This plan actually sounded like it could be a success for all three of them. "I'm sure I could," he said, "but not right now. I don't know the codes. I'd need to somehow figure out how the system works."

"Okay…how can we do that?"

Topher offered him a small grin. "Just give me a week or two, all right? I should have it by then. I'll have to look at it in small bits at a time so no one gets suspicious."

Ballard nodded excitedly and smiled himself. "Sounds good. I'll come back in two weeks."

* * *

As she re-emerged from the chair, the personality she'd been fitted with wiped clean from her system, she instantly locked eyes with Topher. He stopped breathing and whispered, "Hello, Echo."

She stared at him strangely, then at her surroundings. "Where am I?" She stared at him with wide eyes. "Who are you? Where am I!" Despite her fear, hysteria, all the emotions swirling inside of her, she remained rooted to the chair.

And Topher sighed shakily, closing his eyes. The plan was in motion.

"Caroline, I need to explain something to you. It is very important that you do not interrupt me while I talk, because we do not have a lot of time." He took a deep breath, and glanced briefly over her shoulder, where Paul Ballard's unconscious body lay on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. He then looked up at the security camera, which he knew was shut down, along with every other security system in the Dollhouse.

He stared deep into her eyes once again. "I'm getting you out of here."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
